


and I would know him in death, at the end of the world

by dunk_on_em (the_author_at_221B)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assumed Character Death, Crying, Dark, Eventual Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:00:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_author_at_221B/pseuds/dunk_on_em
Summary: Crowley’s legs didn’t move for a couple of seconds. The seconds felt likeyears. When he finally was able to move, he sprinted, stumbling over himself to reach the courtroom doors. He threw them open, and all the air in his body left him with a broken cry.There, in the tub, was Crowley. Or what looked like Crowley, at least.Or;Crowley waits for Aziraphale to return from Hell. He doesn't.





	1. To Know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tangerinee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangerinee/gifts).



> Thank you Tangerinee for being a delightful Good Omens companion and a even better friend.
> 
> Thank you all so, so much for reading.
> 
> This is a completed work, and will be fully posted within a week.
> 
> The title is taken from The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller.
> 
> NOTE - 6/20 - Summary was changed.

It wasn’t easy – looking  _nice_. Crowley had spent 6000 years perfecting the art of looking unapproachable. The dark glasses. The black jeans. The permanent grimace on his face that said ‘Do  _not_  approach. Do  _not_  attempt to communicate with me. If  _I_  choose to communicate with  _you_ , let’s both agree to get it over with as soon as possible’.

But now here he was, wearing the body of someone who had a face that said ‘ _Please_ , ask me about my day, and make extended eye-contact while doing so’. Everything about the body of Aziraphale radiated kindness and hospitality. From the softness in his face, to the kindness in his eyes, there wasn’t a mean bone in the angel’s body. For humanity’s sake, he had even given up his flaming sword. A God-Given weapon, handed away because of an overwhelming abundance of empathy.

The tender-hearted  _fool_.

It should have made imitating Aziraphale difficult. All of the kindness, and what-not. But it didn’t. He was able to copy the nervous smiles and gentle eyes quite well. Even when confronted with the self-righteous prick Gabriel, he kept it together. And if he  _maybe_   _possibly_  roared fire in the direction of him at the end of it all, well - He was sure Aziraphale would forgive him. Or at the very least, the angel would  _say_  he was forgiven. Still wasn’t sure if it was possible or not, the whole ‘being forgiven’ business.

Crowley shook his head as he came out of his musings. He sat up a little bit straighter, calling to mind the angel’s perfect posture. Crowley and Aziraphale had agreed earlier that until they were sure they were safe, they had to continue to act as each other. They didn’t want either side getting wind of what they were doing. Crowley bit back a frown as an elderly woman strolled past and smiled at him.

Only a couple more hours at most. He knew what hell was like. He knew they would be persistent with the whole ‘Holy Water’ punishment. Knowing Beelzebub, they would more than likely make ‘Crowley’ stay in the tub until he was prune-y.  

Crowley smiled. Wouldn’t that be a sight. A supposed demon, all wrinkly from Holy Water.

Just a couple of more hours, that’s all he would need to wait.

* * *

Night had fallen.

Night had  _fallen_ , and Aziraphale hadn’t returned. Crowley was sitting on the park bench, still in the body of Aziraphale. He had went to the book store to see if Aziraphale had decided to stop by there first, and gotten lost in a book or something. He wasn’t there. He miracled his way over to his own apartment, to see if the angel in his body was  _here_  for whatever reason. He wasn’t. As he was turning to leave, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the stainless steel of his countertops.

It was much easier to hide the worry when it was in his own face. In Aziraphale’s, it shone through unfiltered.

* * *

He checked the Ritz. There was nothing.

He checked all Alternative Rendezvous Points (1-17).  Nothing.

He was exceedingly worried by the Ninth Alternative Rendezvous Point.

And by the time he got back to the original bench, right around midnight, where they had planned to meet in the first place, he was full-on panicking. So much could have gone wrong. There were so many variables that went unaccounted for in this plan of theirs, and he had no way of knowing which one went astray. 

He knew he should wait. It was possible that Hell still just had Aziraphale trapped. Getting an order from up high (or down below, depending on how you thought about it) to release Aziraphale could very well take time. He had to believe that Aziraphale was still there, still going through with their plan. Their remarkably non-ineffable plan. So he should too.

Crowley got up from the bench, his fingers long since numb from the cold. He walked in the direction of Aziraphale’s bookshop. It was only a couple of blocks away.

With every step he took, it became harder and harder to move his feet. Every part of his soul, if you could call it that, was screaming out. He wanted to fly into Hell, break through the barriers to drag Aziraphale back home. But he couldn’t. To Heaven, Hell, and the rest of the world, he  _was_ Aziraphale. Keeping up appearances was  _vital_.  If Hell found out that what they had in their possession  _wasn’t_  a demon, things would get so,  _so_ much worse.

So he took a deep breath, and willed his feet forward.

* * *

At the bookstore, it was eerily quiet. The kind of quiet that always precedes something terrible. Crowley took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. He had been here before. It was safe at the bookstore. He grabbed a bottle of white wine off of the table at the center. A drink should calm him. It would, at the very least, stop him from being an anxious wreck when Aziraphale finally arrived.

And he would arrive.

He had to.

Crowley turned the bottle over in his hands, marveling at how different it felt as Aziraphale. The last time the  _real_  Aziraphale had held this bottle was a week or two ago. They had only gotten half-way through it when he had declared himself hungry and in need of a restaurant. Crowley remembered the sound it made as Aziraphale set it on the table to drag Crowley to the nearest sushi house.

A shuddering breath forced its way into his lungs. A drink wasn’t the answer here. He rubbed at his face. He needed to  _sleep_. Aziraphale’s body might not have been used to it, but Crowley’s mind definitely was. Trying not to think too much about it, Crowley moved upstairs to Aziraphale’s bedroom. He collapsed on the sheets, inhaling deeply. Aziraphale might not have used the bed often, but it still smelled of him.

He closed his eyes, letting that scent pull him towards sleep. He drifted off, imagining the smile Aziraphale would wear when he greeted him in the morning.

* * *

Crowley’s eyes snapped open. There was no gentle drifting from unconsciousness to the waking world. He was asleep one moment, and completely awake the next, with the feeling that the world was falling apart around him. He swung his feet out of the bed and sat up, noting that he still had shoes on.

His heart was racing. He could hear it in his own ears, and it was only getting more frantic.

“Aziraphale?” he called out into the darkness. His eyes flickered across the room to the clock on the nightstand. 4:12 AM. His heart beat faster. Something was wrong. He needed to  _move_. Crowley raced downstairs, yelling louder.

“Aziraphale! Angel, are you-”, he stumbled over his own words. “Are you home?”

There was no response. And Crowley didn’t have the patience to wait anymore. If Aziraphale was in trouble, Crowley would be there to drag him out, just like always. Granted, he hadn’t dragged Aziraphale out of  _Hell_  before, but there was no other option at this point. His whole body, his whole mind, everything that Crowley was, was crying out, begging him to find his angel.

Crowley closed his eyes. He knew how to  _go to hell_  at any given moment, and being in the body of Aziraphale didn’t stop that. Being in the body of Aziraphale  _did_  stop him from being able to waltz in the front door, however.

Crowley took a deep breath, picturing where he wanted to go. A hallway outside of the room that would no doubt be used as the courtroom in Hell. The room where they presumably had Aziraphale. It was empty most of the time, and with any luck –

Crowley, still in the body of Aziraphale, disappeared from the world of humans.

He reappeared exactly where he wanted to be. And maybe God, or Satan, or Someone Else Entirely was on his side, because the hallway was as empty as a tomb. He heard voices echo in the courtroom, and cursed silently. He miracled himself some darker clothes, ones that wouldn’t stand out as much as Aziraphale’s white and light blue suit. He pressed himself close to the wall to hide.

It sounded like –  _laughter_. The laughter of Hastur specifically. Crowley pressed his nails into his palm, desperate to run inside, but hesitant out of concern for his angel. A few moments later, both Hastur and Beelzebub left the room, Hastur still slightly giggling.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he gasped, and Crowley’s blood ran cold.

“Collect our tool later. Let it fester for a bit,” Beelzebub responded dryly. And they both left.

Crowley’s legs didn’t move for a couple of seconds. The seconds felt like  _years_.

When he finally was able to move, he sprinted, stumbling over himself to reach the courthouse doors. He threw them open, and all the air in his body left him with a broken cry.

There, in the tub, was Crowley. Or what  _looked_  like Crowley.

Crowley ran over to where Aziraphale’s soul resided.

There was not a  _drop_  of Holy Water left in the tub. But there were drops of blood, instead.  _No, not drops,_  Crowley’s mind registered distantly. There was an  _unbelievable_  amount of blood.

And the flaming sword of Aziraphale, his God-Given Gift that he had given up for those foolish, foolish, humans, protruded from his chest. It had run him through, cleanly, neatly, if it could be called that. In the back of his mind, Crowley registered the sword as  _looking out of place_. 

Crowley barely registered his hands moving to cradle the face Aziraphale was wearing.

“Angel?” his voice shattered, and he felt tears start to stream down his cheeks. “ _Angel_ , my God  _please_.”

Crowley summoned the last bits of energy he had, and with the faintest trace of smoke, they were back in Aziraphale’s bookstore. Right in the center of it, next to the table that held the white wine they never finished.

Crowley didn’t know where to put his hands. They flitted everywhere, from Aziraphale’s face, to his stomach, to the place on his chest where the flaming sword was struck through.

He ended up pulling the body onto his lap, gasping as the face below shifted from his own back into Aziraphale’s. He dimly noticed that he had changed back as well.

Crowley gave a shattered cry, as seeing a broken Aziraphale was infinitely more worse than seeing a broken demon.

“Angel,  _please_! Aziraphale please wake-“ But the body in his arms didn’t wake up. Instead, it started to disappear, fading into the air like sugar fades into a warm cup of tea.

“ _No_ ,” Crowley gasped, trying to pull the body tighter.

But the body was gone. Aziraphale was gone, and the flaming sword clattered to the ground.

And Crowley began to scream.


	2. To Hear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hunched over on himself, pulling the sword in his lap closer. A broken noise shattered the silence of the bookstore. It took Crowley a couple of seconds to realize that the noise had crawled its way out of his own throat, and a couple more before he was able to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for all of the support you all have shown so far. I really hope you enjoy.
> 
> This is the chapter where the story earns its 'M' rating.

From the outside, the bookstore looked as serene as it has ever been. The sunlight filtered through the shop windows, creating a warm glow in Aziraphale’s small foyer. The only places where the sun didn’t shine were in the places where the leaves from trees outside blocked the rays. They created delightful little shadows that danced over stacks of books as the trees shook in the wind.

But inside, the bookstore sat as silent as the tomb. There was no music playing on the ancient record machine that sat in the corner. There were no customers fussing as they were being dissuaded from buying a book they wanted. There were no gentle footsteps sounding through the hallway, absolutely nothing of the sort.

The only sound that could be heard was a sound that was just _barely_ there, and quite infrequent.

In the center of the store, near the table with the wine, Crowley took a shuddering breath. It was the only thing he was capable of doing. He had long since collapsed to his knees. His arms still were resting on his lap.

His palms were facing upwards, as if he were still cradling the angel in his arms.

The flaming sword lay across his lap instead. Somewhere, dimly, in the back of Crowley’s mind, he found it odd that the sword didn’t appear to be harming him at all. Or maybe it was, and he just couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel much of anything. All he could do was breathe.

_A breath in,_

and he was remembering the night they had shared two months ago. Crowley had stopped in, and had found Aziraphale pouring over an old dusty book.

“Crowley!” The angel had looked up with a smile, one so wide it took up his whole face. “It’s so good to see you.” Aziraphale had then went on to ramble about the book he was reading.

_A breath out,_

and Crowley realized that he didn’t remember exactly _what_ book Aziraphale had been reading that night. And he might never get a chance to ask him.

He hunched over on himself, pulling the sword in his lap closer. A broken noise shattered the silence of the bookstore. It took Crowley a couple of seconds to realize that the noise had crawled its way out of his own throat, and a couple more before he was able to stop it.

Few things could really, _truly_ kill an angel. Many things could discorporate one. Guns and guillotines and the like. But there were so few things that could destroy the very soul of an angel, the very essence, and stop it from returning to this world. Hellfire was one, and a weapon created by God was the other.

Crowley cradled the latter in his arms, cursing the kindness of his angel. If Aziraphale wasn’t so damned empathetic, he would have never given the sword away. He would have never let the sword fall in the hands of Hell. If he hadn’t have given his sword to Adam, he might still be –

He couldn’t complete the thought, not even in his mind.

Crowley lifted his torso up off of his knees, looking down at the sword once more. Seeing it in the hands of War had brought back so many memories. So many memories of a gloriously awkward angel, standing at the Eastern Gate. He remembered Aziraphale blushing when he had asked where the sword was. He remembered the angel stammering as he tried to justify his _giving the sword away_.

Crowley took another shuddering breath, in and out, and remembered how the angel had seemed to glow, even in the darkness of the approaching thunderstorm. He remembered smiling at Aziraphale, (unbidden, he hadn’t even _meant_ to), as he fell for the second time that century.

A mechanical noise broke Crowley out of his thoughts. He turned his head slightly, to see Aziraphale’s ancient record player slowly starting to spin. Within a couple of seconds, some sort of operatic piece was drifting through the bookshop, lending a soundtrack to Crowley’s misery. Until –

“Crowwwwleeey,” the low, gravely, _irritating_ voice of Hastur rang out through the record player. “We know you’re here. We know what happened.”

And Crowley, well.

Crowley had been angry before. Being a demon and all that, he was prone to fits of wrath. But on this day – this day he saw _red_.

“I can imagine why you’d want a souvenir and all, but Crowley. We’re gonna need that sword back.”

Crowley, still silent, got to his feet. His glasses were long since gone. The dried tear trails on his cheeks were made wet again when he opened his eyes once more. But these were not the tears of grief, although God knows he was full of it. These were the tears of a being who was so full of anger, so full of fury, that it had to come out somewhere. He gripped the sword tighter in his right hand. The sword seemed to hum in response.

They took Aziraphale from him. They took his _angel_.

They took the only reason he stayed on this miserable rock. They took the last bit of _light_ that Crowley was holding onto. Without that illumination, well. Crowley had never felt more fallen.

“Be a decent demon for once, and wait right there.” The voice of Hastur seemed to drop even lower. “Come quietly, Crowley.”

His grip on the sword flexed, ever so slightly. And with that, Crowley was gone. He miracled his way right back into Hell, only this time, he wasn’t trying to be covert. He wasn’t trying to hide. He was following Hastur’s voice. Wherever Hastur was, Crowley would be there too.

And he was going to make him _pay_.

In the brief millisecond it took for Crowley to teleport, he registered that what he was doing could constitute as suicidal behavior. Going to Hell to kill a Duke was not _acceptable_. There would be consequences.

Then he remembered how the face of Aziraphale went limp and lifeless in his arms, and the thought was gone.

When Crowley opened his eyes, he found himself in a large room. The smell of mold told him that he was in one of the deeper layers of hell. It was barely lit, but the flames from the sword illuminated the room enough to tell Crowley what he needed to know. Hastur and Beelzebub stood together on one side of the room, Crowley was on the other. But the room was by no means empty. Lower level demons and imps crawled along the walls and on the floor. They were easily one hundred strong.

But Crowley wasn’t focusing on them. He pointed the flaming sword at the two who took everything from him.  

And even God Herself would have admitted that Crowley painted an intimidating picture. In this deep pit of Hell, he looked unafraid. His wings were fully extended, poised as if he would fly forward at any moment. The flames from the outstretched sword made his yellow eyes glow in the darkness of the room. His teeth were bared as he started to snarl.

“You _bastards_ ,” he spat out, not trusting his voice to continue.

Beelzebub tilted their head, almost surprised. They let their gaze settle on the puffiness under Crowley’s eyes, on the dried tears still on his face.

“It’s worse than we thought, then,” they drawled, quite lazily.

They extended a pointed finger and tilted their head up slightly.

“End this.”

And with that, the hordes of demons that were lurking in the room all converged, all at once. Their outstretched claws and mouths of fangs closed in on the singular demon.

Crowley gripped the hilt of the sword with two hands and started to swing. He had never been a fighter. Not in his time on earth, certainly not in his time in heaven. He was much better suited towards temptations and the like. But on this day, Crowley fought like he had been doing it for last couple of millennia. Ruthlessly, he cut down demon after demon. He didn’t hear their cries of pain. He didn’t stop to think about how they would never be able to return. Instead, the fire in his chest grew brighter and brighter each time the sword met its mark. In return, the flames on the sword grew taller and taller as well.

He spun around and struck viciously, felling three demons with one stroke. But all he saw in his mind’s eye was Aziraphale, still in Crowley’s body, laying lifeless in that tub.

He squeezed his eyes shut and struck forward, impaling another demon through the chest. The force of the impact ricocheted back up Crowley’s arm. But he couldn’t feel it. All he could remember feeling was how Aziraphale’s body evaporated in his arms. He cried out, and pushed forwards once more, striking again, and again, and again.

Until –

There was no more vengeance to exact.

The last demon collapsed on the floor with nothing more than a dying sigh. There were piles of bodies everywhere, and not a single one was moving. Crowley stood in the center of it all. His knuckles were a ghostly white from the effort of holding on to the sword. The flames from the sword were so large that they were licking up the sides of Crowley’s arms, and yet he couldn’t feel a thing. He was breathing heavily, his jaw hanging slightly open.

Hastur, who hadn’t moved since Crowley had appeared, finally opened his mouth.

“You _stupid_ demon.”

Crowley started to walk forward, and Hastur did as well.

“You miserable _excuse_ of a fallen angel! Do you think this changes anything? Do you think he’s coming back?”

Crowley snarled, and just kept moving.

“There are millions of more soldiers on their way as we _speak_ , Crowley. You’re going to die here and you’ll have accomplished _nothing_ , you fucking insolent-”

And with that, Crowley threw his flaming sword. Time seemed to move in slow motion as it spun like a throwing star. It landed, blade first, in the center of Hastur’s chest. They grunted loudly as their form started to crumble. Crowley, who had not broken stride, arrived at Hastur’s body. He pulled the sword free with no hesitation and slammed it right back, a couple of inches higher that time.

And Hastur was no more.

Beelzebub stood with their hands behind their back, and observed the situation.

“You could have made an excellent demon,” they murmured, reaching into their pocket.

Crowley sensed what they were pulling out long before he saw it. A flask full of Holy Water. Where they got it was unclear. Maybe from Michael, maybe from Earth. Either way, it didn’t matter.

Beelzebub unscrewed the cap with one hand, and flung the contents of the flask at Crowley.

With a fluidity that Crowley didn’t know he possessed, he raised the flaming sword to parry.  

The Holy Water splashed onto the sword and rang out _violently_. Like standing in a church tower when the bells were swinging, the noise got louder and louder. Beelzebub screamed, and covered their ears with their hands.

Crowley dropped the sword, and the whole room went white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so very dearly for reading!
> 
> Your comments on the last chapter meant the world to me. You all have no idea how much they encourage me. I would love to hear what you thought of this chapter!
> 
> Thank you all so, so much!
> 
> ((I've got a tumblr to talk about all things fic! FInd me at dunk-on-em-ao3.tumblr.com! I take writing requests there as well <33))


	3. To Hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angel paced, back and forth along the gate. Most of the time, he held the sword very seriously, in a soldier’s stance. The sword almost seemed to be part of him, for it rested in his grip like it was made for that angel specifically. Occasionally, he would twirl the sword in the air, smiling and giggling softly.
> 
> Crowley couldn’t smile as a snake. Just not possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with me through this story. I hope you enjoy the conclusion.

The Holy Water splashed onto the flaming sword and rang out _violently_. Like standing in a church tower when the bells were swinging, the noise got louder and louder. Beelzebub screamed, and covered their ears with their hands.

Crowley dropped the sword, and the whole room went white.

The demon collapsed to the floor.

* * *

 

“ _Go up there, and make some trouble.” That was all they had told him before they sent him earth-side for the first time. The trouble was, he didn’t particularly know what ‘making trouble’ entailed. Crowley figured that getting someone to break the one and only rule that had been established so far was a good way to start, so he slithered through the lush growth of the Garden’s floor, looking for someone to talk to. Adam or Eve would do equally well, although Eve would probably be much more fun to meet. Adam was still caught up in ‘naming all of God’s creation’, and listening to him ramble about different words for (what would be eventually called) ants got very tiresome, very quickly._

_It turned out to be kind of hard to see through the grass and bushes and the like. Especially when you were on the floor._

_He didn’t feel like manifesting in a ‘human’ form just yet, so he wound his way up a tree, looking for humans to tempt. He didn’t see any at first._

_But he did see an angel, patrolling the Eastern Gate. And he didn’t need any demonic instincts to know that this angel in particular was dangerous. He must be a Principality with a job as important as guarding the gate. And if that wasn’t enough to convince anyone of his power, the flaming sword in his hand sure would._

_The angel paced, back and forth along the gate. Most of the time, he held the sword very seriously, in a soldier’s stance. The sword almost seemed to be part of him, for it rested in his grip like it was made for that angel specifically. Occasionally, he would twirl the sword in the air, smiling and giggling softly._

_Crowley couldn’t smile as a snake. Just not possible._

_But his eyes might have softened a bit._

* * *

 

_“Didn’t you have a sword?” Crowley asked, as he was perched on the Eastern Gate. The angel was to the right of him, and he was looking uncharacteristically nervous._

_“Well,”_

_“You did! It was flaming like anything, what happened to it?”_

_“You see,”_

_“Lost it already, have you?”_

_“Gave-it-away,” the angel whispered quickly._

_“You **what**?”_

_“I gave it **away**!”_

_And this time, Crowley did smile._

* * *

 

_After The Flood, Crowley saw Aziraphale quite sporadically. Creation was still quite new, and there were many blessings and temptations to be had all around the world. When they did meet, they were cordial with each other, although brief. They had seemed to reach some sort of, well not an arrangement per se. Some sort of understanding was more like it. They hadn’t said anything aloud, but there were no fights to be had between the two. They were content simply staying out of each other’s hair._

_Crowley had even offered to take Aziraphale out for a drink a couple of times in the past one hundred years or so. But every time he offered, the angel would blush and fluster about, claiming that he had other things to do._

_So Crowley supposed that he would just have to keep asking._

_Either way, he had word that Aziraphale was off blessing the Chinese people in their quest to do something or other, so he had returned to Noah’s family. He some small temptations lined up. A couple of fights, a few petty crimes, nothing too serious._

_However, as he strolled through the tents, a young woman working caught his eye. He sauntered over, looking over her shoulder as she painted a figure onto a large white stone. The figure was golden, bathed in white light. He was pointing a flaming sword into the air, triumphantly, almost as though he was claiming the sky and the heavens above._

_The young woman noticed someone behind her, and she turned her head._

_“Sir, do you like it? It from a story my grandmother told me. It can be yours for ten copper pieces!”_

_Without lifting his eyes from the painting, Crowley snapped his fingers, and three gold pieces appeared in his palm. He handed them to the young girl, who was overflowing with gratitude._

* * *

 

_The stone eventually made its way to Crowley’s apartment. He never did show Aziraphale._

* * *

 

_I_ _n the hands of War, the sword held none of the allure he knew it to possess. It felt – wrong. Like seeing an old friend with a different face._

* * *

 

_Aziraphale picked up the sword as they prepared to face off against the Devil Himself. Crowley’s heart gave a lurch, and Crowley couldn’t honestly tell himself that it was all just nerves._

* * *

 

_Seeing the sword protrude from Aziraphale’s chest was, in a word, unnatural. That sword was a part of the angel. It was created for him, to be used by him. To have it be the object that took his life was unforgivable._

* * *

* * *

 

Crowley woke up, oh so slowly. He was lying on the floor, made warm only by the fires of hell. Gingerly, he peeled an eye open to see nothing but white light. He snapped his eyes back shut, wincing at the brightness.

He tried again, slower this time. His eyes adjusted ever so slightly, and he saw the crawling form of Lord Beelzebub in the midst of the light.  Heat blisters had erupted all over their face, and their mouth was pulled tight in a never-ending hiss. They raised out their hand to the glowing being that stood directly over them. Crowley blinked a couple of times as he tried to make out the figure.

The golden figure stood up straight, and their eyes flashed white. With one hand, they drew out the flaming sword, and pointed it at the cowering Beelzebub.

“Leave,” the light whispered. And Beelzebub was no more.

As Crowley sank back into unconsciousness, the voice of the light echoed in his ears.

It sounded like _home_.

* * *

 

Crowley woke up for the second time that day. This time, his head was not spinning, and the room was not bathed in light. He was also no longer on the floor. Instead, he was in Aziraphale’s bedroom under a warm, gray quilt. He sat up quickly, throwing his feet out of bed. There was no one else in the room with him.

The other side of the bed was dipped slightly in, as if someone had been laying there. Carefully, as if he were afraid of what he might find, Crowley placed a hand there. It was still slightly warm.

The thorny, all-encompassing vines of _hope_ reached up and entangled his heart. But there was no way. Aziraphale was dead, gone forever. Cut down by his own sword.

But the evidence was here. Crowley was in Aziraphale’s bedroom, right above the bookshop. Someone was there with him, not too long ago.

Crowley sat, frozen in the moment of indecision. And then he heard movement downstairs.

His legs started moving of their own accord. Down the stairs he ran, throwing off the blanket and tripping over his own feet. The vines of hope around his heart pulled tighter and tighter with each step he took.

When he finally reached the bottom, he didn’t see a soul. There was no further noise. Crowley opened his mouth.

“Angel?” His voice was weak and trembling.

There was no response. Crowley ran his hands through his hair. He knew this would happen. There was no point in getting worked up, he was _foolish_ to believe –

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale walked out from the small kitchenette. He was holding a glass of tea in two shaking hands. There were bags under his eyes, and his whole face was pale. He looked tired, and overworked, and in need of resting for a century or two.

Crowley believed that there had never been a more beautiful sight.

Dazed, he walked over to his angel. With a single hand, he reached out to cup Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale’s hand reached up to cover it.

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmured.

And Crowley simply shattered. He fell into the angel’s arms, who pulled him in as tight as possible. The tea cup clattered to the floor, forgotten. Crowley didn’t cry as much as simply just tried to breathe.

Aziraphale, through all his heavenly wisdom, seemed to know exactly what do. He carded his fingers through the demon’s hair, whispering softly and rocking gently as Crowley fell apart in his arms. They stayed twined together for a good long while, neither truly believing all that had happened in the last couple of days.

When Crowley finally felt like his lungs were working properly, he lifted his head from under Aziraphale’s chin. He gave a wobbly grin, and kissed the angel gently.

“I missed you,” he laughed, trusting that Aziraphale could hear all the words that he was leaving unsaid. And he did.

“I love you too,” Aziraphale smiled, kissing Crowley through his grin. “I love you, and I missed you, and I’m sorry I left you.”

Crowley took a steadying breath and pulled the angel back in. He didn’t trust his own face not to betray everything he felt in that moment.

“How?” he finally asked. “How are you here?”

“You know my dear, I’m not one hundred percent sure,” Aziraphale hummed in that delightfully charming way of his. “An angel’s soul, if not in a body, needs a willing host. As near as I can tell, the flaming sword was quite willing.”

“You were in – Your soul was in the _sword_?”

“I think so, maybe. It _carried_ my soul, more likely.” Aziraphale nuzzled into Crowley’s neck, sending a wave of warmth rushing through his body. “That was smart thinking with the Holy Water and all. It seemed to return me to my form.”

Crowley thought very hard and very long about whether or not he should tell Aziraphale that the Holy Water landing on the sword was purely self-defense, and that he wouldn’t have thought of that as a _solution_ if he was given another 6,000 years to think about it. He decided against it.

“Must have been part of the ineffable plan,” he ventured slowly, drawing back once more. The smile he received from his angel was blinding. Almost bright enough to burn away the pain of losing it for a time.

Almost.

He kissed Aziraphale once more, trying desperately to pour everything he felt into the kiss. The pain of finding him lifeless, the rage he fell victim to in Hell, the joy upon seeing him again. The angel sighed into the kiss, not wanting to break it. He then inhaled sharply.

“Crowley!”

“What?” he whined back, still a bit love-drunk.

“I think I cast Beelzebub out of Hell. Where does one even _go_ from there?”

Crowley held the angel tighter and let a laugh float up.

The flaming sword, resting on the table with the half-empty bottle of wine, burned ever brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to Tangerinee for being such a delightful inspiration! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading! I would love to hear what you thought, your comments help me so,so much.
> 
> Feel free to leave me a prompt over at dunk-on-em-ao3.tumblr.com!
> 
> Thank you again!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank you again for reading! As mentioned, this work will be finished within the week.
> 
> Your comments mean the world to me, and I cherish every one. I would love to know what you think so far.
> 
> Thank you again!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at spockazilla.tumblr.com


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